


Fetch

by stop_the_fading



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Gore, Happy Halloween!, M/M, Not even a little sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stop_the_fading/pseuds/stop_the_fading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loves Halloween.</p><p>It's the best time of year. It's more than pumpkin-flavored things and cheesy Disney flicks - there's a rawness about it, the barrier between this world and the next scraped open and bleeding across both. He can taste it in the air, a thin, bitter sort of flavor that wisps down his throat and into his nostrils and tickles at his brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fetch

    Stiles loves Halloween.  
  
    It's the best time of year, he decides as he rolls off his panting, quivering lover and pads into the bathroom. It's more than pumpkin-flavored things and cheesy Disney flicks - there's a rawness about it, the barrier between this world and the next scraped open and bleeding across both. He can taste it in the air, a thin, bitter sort of flavor that wisps down his throat and into his nostrils and tickles at his brain.  
  
    Tonight, more than any night, Stiles can feel the pull of the Other Side, dragging at his soul, sucking it away like so much smoke. It should frighten him, really, the knowledge that if there was a night on which he was likely to fade, it would be this night. Instead, it adds an element of danger, adrenaline rushing through his body, reminding him that he is fantastically, incredibly alive. Stiles loves feeling alive more than anything.  
  
    When he's done cleaning up, he goes in search of his pants, not sparing Derek so much as a second glance. Normally, he enjoys looking, thrills in the afterglow, when the other man is at his most open and affectionate. It's like having a pet, really, Stiles thinks as he tugs on his jeans. A really adoring pet that you can have hot sex with without the SPCA getting all butthurt, he amends. That talks, which is actually something of a downside normally, but Derek doesn't talk much anyway, and when he does, it's usually to beg Stiles to fuck him harder, so really, that can only be considered a plus.  
  
    Stiles definitely enjoys it when Derek begs.  
  
    Derek's talking now, and it's not about sex, but Stiles can play the attentive lover as well as anyone, so he tunes in.  
  
    "-careful going home," Derek is mumbling into his pillow, pretty eyes peeking out at him. "'S Halloween. All the creeps come out on Halloween."  
  
    Stiles laughs, because...well, Derek isn't wrong.  
  
    He reassures his lover, though, because the man looks sulky and tense, and Stiles knows from experience that if he doesn't mollify Derek, he'll be hearing about it for hours the next time they see each other. There's nothing like the anticipation of a talk about feelings to bring down the night's fun, and tonight promises to be especially fun, so he promises Derek that he'll take care and won't stay out past sunset.  
  
    It's only a little lie, really, Stiles thinks as he shoves his hands into that kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. And certainly not the worst of the lies he's been telling. Once upon a time, he would have been more conflicted about it - he'd wasted so many years on moral quandries and internal ethical debates, and for what? It hadn't changed anything, and had only left him miserable and broken.  
  
    Now, though...now things are different. He's not bogged down so much with the whys and shoulds and can'ts. Now he can live, really live, without the philosophical baggage that so many people seem to drag around with them like so many over-stuffed wheelie suitcases.  
  
    Scott had been like that, once upon a time. So long ago, Stiles thinks absently as he watches yellowed, tattered leaves skitter across his trainers as he waits for the light to change. Scott, so sweet and compassionate...he hadn't been made for this life. He had been nearly feral by the end, all jagged teeth and primal screams that tore the throat. It had been mercy, really, that had moved Stiles to end it, possibly the last selfless act he'd ever committed.  
  
    He misses him sometimes. Misses the way it had been before. Before the cold and the emptiness, before the darkness had eaten them from the inside out. Mostly, though, Stiles misses having someone around that he doesn't have to wear a mask for.  
  
    Ironic, he thinks, pausing to dip into a darkened alleyway as a group of early revelers in Columbina carnival masks pass by, that the one night the world cavorts and capers with their faces covered is the one night Stiles and his kind can do without - have to do without, really. It's a heady sort of freedom, even if it's a bit bland without someone to share it with.  
  
    Derek comes to mind when he thinks this, but he shakes it off. There are a lot of words Stiles can use to describe his lover, but 'devoid of compassion' isn't really on the list. The more questionable aspects of Stiles' existence would definitely rub the man the wrong way. More the shame, Stiles thinks as he watches the crowds begin to swell as the stars come out and the last of the day's light drains away. Derek is just the sort of mate he would have liked to keep close. He might have even loved him, once upon a time. And Derek certainly loves him. He's terrible at pretending otherwise, whereas Stiles is far too good at pretending. Which, he concedes, is probably what prompted the other man to fall for him in the first place.  
  
    He calls Stiles all sorts of things when they're together; beautiful, perfect, wonderful. And those things are certainly true, but not, Stiles suspects, in the way Derek means. He suspects, sometimes, that Derek might be catching glimpses of Stiles, the real Stiles behind the mask, but he always seems to brush it off, like something he's spotted out of the corner of his eye. It happens more now than when they met, those few months ago.  
  
    Perhaps, Stiles reflects with a tinge of regret, it's time to cut Derek loose.  
  
    It's later in the evening when he finds his first meal. Big, dumb, and fortunately confident enough to travel alone in the dark, the meaty idiot goes down quickly and without a sound. It's almost disappointing, though Stiles knows that easier is better. Less fun, maybe, but better. He feeds quickly, feeling the warm tendrils of life writhing within him as the warm, sticky bits slide over his tongue and down his throat. He's left lapping at his fingers too soon, stomach pleasantly full, but feeling too wispy and insubstantial to stop.  
  
    He needs more, as always.  
  
    The second course is pretty and fleshy, and she screams before Stiles can tear her throat out. It melts into the night like sugar on the tongue, blending with the gleeful cries of the reveling masses. She goes down smoother than the first, all softness. He can feel the distension of his belly, the satiation in his limbs, and he wonders why he'd ever hated this. The blood pumps through his veins hotly, he can feel the pulse of life in every inch of his body, and everything looks sharper, feels realer than ever before.  
  
    The pull of the Other Side is still there, sucking at his essence feebly, and he feels strong.  
  
    His mouth, a long, thin slash of red across a face more angular and pale than it had been, stretches into a crooked, sated grin.  
  
    He feels alive.  
  
    "Stiles?"  
  
    Fuck. Fucking fuck.  
  
    Straightening up from the cooling remains of his feast, Stiles curls his tongue out to lick at his cheek. He turns slowly to face Derek and offers him an easy grin full of needle-sharp teeth. "Babe. Hey."  
  
    Derek's eyes are bluer than usual, his teeth longer and his face hairier, and Stiles laughs long and loud.  
  
    "A werewolf, huh?" he chuckles when he can breathe properly again. "Wow. So maybe I didn't have to play things so close to the chest after all."  
  
    His lover isn't smiling, though. His eyes are on what's left of the young woman's corpse, distress tightening his face in a way Stiles recognizes. He sighs.  
  
    "You're going to want to talk about this, aren't you?"  
  
    "What are you?" Derek asks in lieu of an answer.  
  
    Stiles stuffs his hands, with their too-long fingers and razor-sharp claws, into his hoodie pocket and shrugs. "A revenant." Off Derek's confused glance, Stiles sighs. "They don't teach you anything in werewolf school, I guess. Hey, do you guys have special schools, or is it more of a learn-as-you-go kinda-"  
  
    "Stiles."  
  
    The terse way he says Stiles' name is nearly normal, and Stiles wonders if maybe he could...but no. There's anger and betrayal there, and none of the usual affection. Yeah. For all his tough-guy bluster, Derek wasn't built for this life any more than Scott had been.  
  
    "A revenant," he begins to cover the vague disappointment, "is what people who don't want to move on become."  
  
    "Like a ghost?"  
  
    Casting his lover - former lover? - an unimpressed glance, Stiles bares his teeth again and lets his eyes bleed into their customary blood-red. "Do I look like a ghost to you?"  
  
    Derek shrugs, and Stiles' attention is drawn to his unsheathed claws. "Never met a ghost before, so I couldn't tell you."  
  
    "Yeah, well, it's not the same thing. Ghosts usually have some kind of unfinished business, or don't realize that they're dead. They almost always die bloody, and have scores to settle. Revenants...they get too attached to feeling alive. We're more about the simple things in live. Good food," he elaborates with another flick of his tongue over bloody lips, "good sex," he continues, leering at Derek. "The basics. It's not about feelings with us, really. We're just...too real to fade away for good."  
  
    "And that means you have to...to..." Swallowing, Derek's eyes flit from the corpse to Stiles' not-quite-human face and back.  
  
    "Eat people," Stiles finishes. "I eat people, dear. And yes, if I want to stay in the mortal plane and enjoy all the benefits that come with it, I have to eat people. It's a take-flesh-to-get-flesh kinda deal."  
  
    "And if you stop?"  
  
    Stiles' eyebrows wing upward, and he laughs again. "Why the fuck would I do that? Dude, it's two, maybe three people a year. Stupid people, too," he adds with a snort. "Wandering into dark alleys, alone, on Halloween? The gene pool isn't exactly suffering without them."  
  
    "They're people, Stiles," Derek says softly, eyes pleading. "Innocent people. They don't deserve this."  
  
    "What, death?" Snorting, Stiles waves his hands in a wide arc. "And I did? I've been doing this for a long time, Derek. And believe me, I went through my little moral crisis. Like, a century-long moral crisis. And eventually, you just realize that humans are nothing more than so many sacks of sentient steak and chitterlings. They're all gonna die, dude," he finishes with another shrug. "Just like I did. At least these morons are dying for a good reason. How many people can say that?"  
  
    "Stiles, please." Taking a step forward, Derek reaches out with a clawed hand like some kind of hirsute white knight. "You don't have to do this. These are innocent people," he repeats.  
  
    "Oh, yeah. So innocent." Stepping back, Stiles scowls. "And I kind of do, Derek. Do you know what happens to me if I stop? I fade."  
  
    Derek's face communicates ridiculous levels of not-getting-it.  
  
    "It's...it's death concentrate, Derek." Stiles shudders. "There's another place. The Other Side. It's...not here, not there. Just an eternity of darkness that fills you up, a long stretch of nothingness, and just enough consciousness is left to perceive it. It's cold, and empty, and tastes like grave dirt. And that's it. There's no comfort, no rest, no anything. Forever."  
  
    Shaking his head, Derek now reaches out with both hands, taking a few more bold steps. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I am. But you can't...you can't do this."  
  
    "Uh...yeah, I can," Stiles snorts. "Like I said, I've been doing this for a while. I've pretty much got the art down." He turns to walk away from the alley, from the conversation, from Derek. Poor, sappy, soft-hearted Derek. Just like Scott.  
  
    "I can't let you hurt people."  
  
    The soft steel in Derek's voice gives Stiles pause, and he turns as Derek lunges forward, claws sweeping at Stiles' throat. Ducking under, Stiles circles behind the werewolf as he unbalances, and with a quick jab of his own claws, severs Derek's spinal cord.  
  
    "I'm sorry," Stiles says blandly, licking his claws daintily, "but when have you ever 'let' me do anything?"  
  
    Derek's wounds keep healing as Stiles rips his belly open, over and over. He digs up and into the ribcage, and Derek gurgles when his lungs and heart are punctured, but doesn't die. Shrugging, Stiles resigns himself to having to keep re-opening the wounds.  
  
    He's pleased, though, to find that Derek's healing factor means that his flesh and blood keep replenishing themselves, long after he loses consciousness. Stiles watches as he tears away intestine with his teeth, only to watch the jagged mess heal again. He laughs, gorging himself as Derek grows weaker and weaker.  
  
    He sucks the slick blood from his fingers when, finally, Derek's healing can no longer keep up and he dies, body cooling slowly in the chill of the evening. The full moon shines in his glassy eyes, as beautiful as ever, as Stiles crawls up his corpse to press a messy kiss to his lips.  
  
    "Thanks for dinner, babe. It's been real."  
  
    When he's sure his face and hands are clean, Stiles tugs his hood up over his hair and slips his hands into the hoodie pocket, striding out of the alley and melting easily into a passing cluster of costumed youths. He spares the barest of glances for the bodies tucked behind the Dumpster and sighs.  
  
    Time for a change, he thinks. Maybe South America this time.  
  
    Turning his face to the moon, Stiles grins. Life is singing in his veins, a sharp contrast to the ever-present stink of death that characterizes this, the darkest night. It's beautiful, and perfect, and wonderful, and even though he knows he should be afraid of the pull of the Other Side, he can't feel anything but triumphant. Tonight is the night that he beats death.  
  
    Stiles really loves Halloween.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...not sorry.
> 
> Well...maybe a little bit sorry...
> 
> ...
> 
> ...nope. Not even that.
> 
> Happy Halloween?


End file.
